Adventures of the Odd Couple in Boston

Every yin needs a yang and every Christina needs a Peggy.

We used to joke that we were foils, and for as long as I've known her (going on 21 years now!) it's still totally true.

Peggy loves attention, I hate it.
Peggy loves to play, I feel uncomfortable playing.
Peggy lives by the motto "Do what you like, like what you do," and I'm not even sure I can tell you what I "like."

So of course it makes perfect sense that despite living in Boston for 3 years, it wasn't until Peggy's visit that I finally experienced some of the touristy stuff this historical city has to offer. I went on the Freedom Trail for the first time, I had my first (and second) bowl of authentic New England clam chowder, and I went to my first Boston Red Sox game in Fenway Park.

Some pictures from our adventures:

Granary Burial Ground--known as the "Westminster Abbey of America" since anyone who was anyone in Colonial days was buried here. Famous dead people include: Ben Franklin, Paul Revere, John Hancock, and Samuel Adams.


The tombstones had pretty winged skulls on them. They look so benign--like if Sanrio came out with a death inspired line of stationary characters.


Michael warned us that Paul Revere's tomb is impossible to find and he had tried before without success. We found it without even trying because it was so obvious! Makes me wonder if he's really literate...hmmmm.


Ye Olde Union Oyster House--the "oldest restaurant in America."


Here we are enjoying our first authentic bowl of New England chowda'...


...and some fish and chips.


Faneuil Hall--called the "Cradle of Liberty" and "the home of free speech." The first floor was a marketplace while the second was the proverbial "marketplace of ideas."


In the town meeting hall pictured here Bostonians protested "taxation without representation." Famous abolitionists like Frederick Douglas also spoke out here.


Old North Church--made famous by Longfellow's line "one if by land, two if by sea." But what I found really entertaining were the pew cubicles.


Congregants would rent their own pew cubbies and have their family names engraved on them. This was the church's way of making money (and much more dependable than tithing!) The closer you were to the front, the more expensive your cubby.


Congregants would also upholster their pews and bring furniture from home to spice it up. Here's a picture of a nicely decorated pew.


Fenway Park--Home of the Boston Red Sox!

We thought we would show our spirit by buying some $3 shirts at the bargain bin. The only ones in our size said "Yankees Suck." We felt kind of stupid wearing them since the Sox were playing the KC Royals. Oh well...you get what you paid for!


The crowd went wild at the end because it was a historical game--a no hitter!


Thanks Peg, that was fun!

Peggy bit me

For the last 3 days my lifelong friend Peggy has been visiting and we've been hamming it up around Boston.

Until I find the time to post about it, here's at least one thing from her visit I can immediately share: the youtube video that had us cracking up for hours...



And this one too...

A Bartley's Goodbye

For the last 3 years I've lived a stone's throw away from a national monument of sorts. A monument to burgers, if you will.

Mr. Bartley's is probably the best burger joint in America (so says The Wall Street Journal) and everytime I've walked by it always had a mile-long line of patient clients. And the smell. It smells like food heaven when you walk by.


So of course it was time to finally try it. I have no excuse for passing up this once in a lifetime gastronomical opportunity considering: (1) I live 2 minutes away and (2) it's very reasonbly priced and (3) I luuuuuuuuuuv meat.

The burgers did not disappoint and there were two additional perks: (1) The burgers were all named after famous politicians and Bostonians (The Bill Clinton, The Dick Cheney, etc.) I had the Deval Patrick (Gov of Mass). Click on picture to enlarge.


(2) And we had a last meal with our dear friends before they move to Ohio. Goodbye Birches-you are the mellowest, chillest, coolest, surfer-like people we know. Hang loose.

Done Done DONE!

After taking my last final ever I had the (good?) fortune of seeing my best lawschool bud Alaberi immediately afterwards. Being the chronic journaller, she taped my candid confession (unbeknownst to me!) and made this video commemoration.

Very tricky Alaberi! You're too clever by half :-)



Thanks for your friendship, which made it all bearable. Love ya'!

Shirking Tool

It's Michael's job to take out the garbage so every few weeks we have this very same conversation. And it never ceases to crack me up...even though I've heard it like 10 times before!

Me: Something stinks. I think it's the garbage.

Michael: *silence*

Me: Seriously, the garbage stinks, you need to take it out.

Michael: Maybe it's just your upper lip.

Me: (laughs and forgets about the garbage for a few hours)

Guy TV

In many ways I'm a girly girl.

I love pink, lavendar, and coral colors. My eyes light up when I go to the mall. I can watch Sex and the City reruns until kingdom come. Etc.

But sometimes I'm forced to watch "guy" stuff because I live with a guy and we only have one tv set. Lately, Michael has co-opted the tv with episodes of PBS's Carrier, a documentary about life aboard the USS Nimitz, a Navy supercarrier that is apparently 4 acres in surface area! (Or we watch Battlestar Galactica on Netflix or political news--yup, Michael has an iron fist grasp on the boobtube).

Alyssa Milano aboard the USS Nimitz.

And unfortunately for me, the show is a 10 part series. Each part is 2 hours long. Yeah...20 hours of military footage. Enough said.

But I love tv, even more than I love to be entertained, so I've been dutifully watching my share of Navy and Marine personnel talking about their lives and duties on board the ship. I've learned about ranks, jets, weaponry, etc. But mostly about the horrible mundaneness of their every day lives.


It's basically a floating bureacracy...like a seaworthy DMV. If there is any excitement at all, it belongs to the hotshot pilots who are treated like rockstars because in that neck of the woods, I suppose they are. But even the pilots get bored and antsy when they're not called on to drop some bombs for months.

Watching all this reminds me of how close I was to becoming recruited into the military myself. I remember during my senior year of highschool, some military recruiters made an announcement at school about how great joining the armed forces would be. On a whim of naivete, I signed up.

Two recruiters showed up at my house the next day and told me about how great military life is, etc...and gave me an application. I thought, what the heck. I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, I like following orders, and it couldn't hurt to get some military experience. I remembered taking a Myers Briggs test the year before and it said I could have a promising career as a commanding officer. Of course my parents never signed off on it and the rest is history.

But I was that close.

Obama Drama

I'm like a second-hand smoker.

If political punditry is a fire and those who consume it, like Michael, are first-hand smokers, then I am a happy second. I don't care enough to actually watch the You-Tube clips and the broadcast debates, but I love hearing about the general shape of things filtered down from Michael and the occasional Shields and Brooks.

And just when I thought things couldn't get more exciting in one of the most exciting primary seasons since...before I was born, the Rev. Jeremiah Wright sure proved me wrong! Talk about adding fuel to the fire.

In all the rhetoric and soundbites, the whole thing strikes me as more than a little tragic. Truly sad. How did a pastor who shepharded his congregant for so many years become a true thorn in his side?

We've all heard about how Obama's pastor was by his side during major life events: marriage, baptisms, and blessing the inauguration of his presidential bid--but that does not begin to describe the depth of relationship there must have been between Obama and Rev. Wright. Their interaction was not just formal, but substantive.

Obama became a Christian in 1988 after listening to, what must have been a very moving sermon by Wright, entitled "The Audacity to Hope." And the rest, as they say, is history.

Obama entitled his attention-grabbing 2004 DNC speech, The Audacity of Hope, and his subsequent eponymous book, and continues to brand himself as the pope of hope on the campaign trail.

So what the heck happened?

How did a man whose sermons inspired a movement (Obama toted the Rev. Wrights tapes to law school too) become the proverbial embarassing drunk uncle at the wedding reception?

I guess the easy way out is just to say that the Rev. Wright had some great inspirational messages and some kooky conspiracy theories. Obama loved one and not the other.

Indeed, none of this drama would've happened really if a Hillary supporter didn't goad the Rev. Wright into taking to the media circuit and "vindicating" himself from Obama's first light reproach.

Now see, that's the real lesson in all this. Hillary is scary. You don't wanna mess with her. Oh yeah, you know that when she plays, she plays to win.

The Other Meat Market

Ever wonder how much a big toe is worth?


Well, according to the US Chamber of Commerce, in California in 2006, a big toe will get you $3,960 in workers' compensation. Your other 4 toes combined will only fetch $660.

This somewhat dehumanizing practice of quantifying the value of body parts is listed on scheduled benefit charts, referred to by an even more dehumanizing name--"meat charts."

Here are some other California values:

Hand: $75,515
Thumb: $21,010
Arm at Shoulder: $142,898
Leg at Hip: $61,435
One Eye: $17,714
One Ear: $5,280
(One Ear in Idaho: $1.04!!!!)
Both Ears: $58,080

This would make for a very morbid MasterCard commercial, no?

Having a quiet desk job? Priceless.

Jesus in the World

I do not want to worship Jesus Christ,
the historical Jesus of Nazareth,
who by all acounts was crucified by the Romans.

I do not want to follow Jesus Christ,
because by all acounts,
frankly,
he was a loser.

He was a workaday tradesman,
poor, uneducated, and
lets not forget how it all ended.

A servant cannot be greater than his master,
so what would that make me?

Less than a loser,
which means,
my hopes, dreams, desires, ambitions,
my ego, self, identity, and status,
will be as they were for my Lord:

Dashed to pieces,
crucified,
abandoned,
mocked,
and ultimately unmanifest in the world.

But when Christ who is my life appears,
then (and only then and not before then)
will I appear with him also
in glory.

In this world, my friend says, there are winners and losers.
And my Lord was, by all accounts, a loser.

A Farewell to Briefs

Today I briefed my last case. Ever. For life.

I don't know how many countless cases I've briefed in the last 3 years, but it seemed like divine appointment that my last one should end with this quote:

"...the blood of the workman [is] a cost of production..."

-Birklid v. The Boeing Company (Wash. 1995)

An ominous foreshadowing of what is to come...?

Breakdown

The one downside of beautiful weather is the increased risk of injury from romping around outside (see previous post).

I suffered such an injury when I fumbled for a frisbee and twisted my ankle. At first I wasn't too concerned since I was still able to walk the mile back home without any problem.

But all of a sudden, 4 hours after the initial incident, this killer pain started to emanate from my ankle. It was a pain like you could not believe. Throbbing, intense, angry, unabating. Even when I didn't move it I wanted to pass out from the pain.


After lying around the couch with an ice bag for 2 hours I finally decided to go to the ER.

It was midnight by this time when Michael wheeled me in. What followed was the most infuriating experience I've ever had at a medical facility.


The doctor literally saw me for...oh, something like 2 minutes. He didn't even touch my ankle or foot. He gave a mere glance, said he doesn't see anything wrong with it and told me goodbye!

Goodbye?!!!!

Hell no! I've been literally shaking in pain for 4 hours and dragged myself down here in the middle of the night so you can just take a peak at it and then send me on my way?! What the hell?! I'm seriously writing this man up. This will be a mark on his license. I'm writing the AMA. His bedside manners are appalling!

I tried to reason with him...the pain...the horrible intense pain...surely there might be something wrong despite the lack of swelling...maybe it's a fracture on the inside...something that required an x-ray? Maybe he could at least give me some wrap bandages? Some vicodin for the pain?

He looked at me like I was some pain-medicine junkie and said there was nothing he could do for me. He did give me a pair of crutches though and an air splint after I wouldn't stopping nagging him.

And after further nagging he said he'd give me an x-ray referral so I could check it out later. Well, today I went to go get x-rays and found out that stupid doctor screwed me again. I was supposed to get an ankle x-ray but he had referred a foot x-ray for me instead! Idiot.


I had to play the bureaucratic medical game today...running between floors, waiting in various lines, filling out various forms...seeing face after face of sour medical receptionists, technicians, and nurses...

"I know the form says "foot" x-ray but he was treating me for an ankle fracture so I really need an "ankle" x-ray," is what I said.

But what I wanted to say was, "What the hell is so hard about moving your x-ray machine down one inch to capture my freaking ankle instead of just my foot?! You idiotic, pencil-pushing, bureaucratic numskull?! It was a stupid clerical error!!! Just look in your stupid computer and you can see HE TREATED ME FOR AN ANKLE FRACTURE!!!!"

On another note, why is everyone in the University Health Services profession pissed off? Everyone I saw gave me a withering look--like I was as welcome as an STD infection. Sheesh! Excuse me for living!

Anyway, after wasting countless hours and expended emotions, a nurse finally told me there were no visible fractures from my ankle x-rays. That's it.

She didn't sit down and ask me my symptoms, history, etc. She didn't even look at my ankle swathed in bandages! She didn't even show me my x-rays so who knows if she was telling me this just to finally get rid of me!

But I have it on her authority--nurse somebody, I don't even know her name--that my ankle should be fine in a few days.

Great.

At this point, I'm more concerned about the state of medical care in this country than about my ankle.

Bocce Face

Took advantage of another beautiful Spring day today and played with the bocce ball set Michael bought himself for his birthday.


I realize I make a wierd face when I'm throwing a bocce ball.


It's like a cross between concentration (see photo below) and constipation (see photo above).

Car Alarm Bird

This morning I woke up tired and grumpy.

It's the damn birds outside my window.

There's this one bird in particular. It makes a sound like a car alarm:

tdeeeeeew-tdeeeeeew-tdew-tdew-tdew-tdew-tdew-tdew
tdeeeeeew-tdeeeeeew-tdew-tdew-tdew-tdew-tdew-tdew
tdeeeeeew-tdeeeeeew-tdew-tdew-tdew-tdew-tdew-tdew
tdeeeeeew-tdeeeeeew-tdew-tdew-tdew-tdew-tdew-tdew
tdeeeeeew-tdeeeeeew-tdew-tdew-tdew-tdew-tdew-tdew

Every beat, on the beat.

This stupid bird starts skawking at sunrise and for a moment, my sleep-addled mind incorporated that god-forsaken noise into my dream.

I was back in my childhood home and this gigantic bird, the size of a small dog, was making that awful noise right in the backyard. I was sitting in the house, next to the double-sliding patio window doors and the bird was on the other side squawking.

But this bird was special looking. And by special I mean disgusting. It had the head of a parrot and a naked body, no feathers! Scared the bejesus out of me! I know where this image came from too.

I was watching the local news yesterday and they showed a brief picture of a dancing featherless bird. I nearly threw up when I saw it. Watch this if you dare. (First you'll probably want to put down any chicken tenders you might be eating at the moment).

Anyway, in my dream I was deciding how to get rid of this gigantic horrible beast-bird outside my patio door and thought about opening the door and throwing a rock at it. But I was afraid it would get bloody and pissed and attack me. Messy.

Slowly I realized it was a dream, and the real source of that awful noise was outside my window. I begrudgingly got out of bed, put on earplugs and quietly said a blessing for the inventor of soft squishy materials--aaaaah sweet relief. It's amazing how effective earplugs are these days!

Until my earplugs fell out a few hours later and once again my ears filled with the audio equivalent of bile.

Damn bird.

Who'da Thunk?!

Public Service Announcement of the Day:

Tricky Legal Nomenclature Memorandum #001

A mechanic's lien is not what you think it is. It's a lien put on land or buildings by a construction worker. It has nothing to do with car mechanics.

An artisan's lien is what car mechanics get.

These people are thinking, "We didn't get paid on time. Should we put a mechanic's lien on the property?"

A Little Love, Finally!

Let it be duly noted that Thursday April 10th was the first beautiful day in Boston in 2008. It's been a long horrible winter since October last year so you can imagine the relief!

Though it took Boston far too long to eek out one fair afternoon, it was certainly worth waiting for: seventy degrees, sunny, and clear as a crystal.

I went jogging just to be outdoors and I smiled like an idoit the entire time. That's what happens when you taste your first drop of warmth after 6 months of bitter cold! Heck, it seemed the entire city was out jogging, walking, and lying out in the sun. An old lady in my apartment complex sat on our front steps just to eat her yogurt!

Fine days. Just another reason I'm so happy to be moving back to California in a couple months. There a nice day is nothing to blog about, but here, it's a cause celebre.

Touchy subject

I'm bored from studying so this is my "break."

I don't really have anything to write about though.

Except this recent thought: I really hate talking to people about their beliefs...unless we already pretty much agree.

It's not that the subject itself displeases me, it's everything that comes with it. The emotion, the perception of judgment and the triggering of inferiority complexes. I'm much too afraid of offending the other person, which renders me rather mute and inarticulate. Everything has to be couched so diplomatically so as not to make the other person feel "bad." What I'm trying to say always gets lost in the hems and haws of niceties.

I hate the sensitivity dance.

I've learned long ago to speak about beliefs only to those who already know my intentions toward them are non-judgmental--basically, my friends. To strangers who do not understand where I'm coming from I often resort to actions only. I find for myself that it is both cowardly and necessary.

Need a good laugh?

Next time you think your morning commute sucks, just check out these unfortunate Japanese commuters:



I laughed so hard watching this I thought I was going to bust a gut. Funniest thing I've seen in years! Thanks Alaberi!

Amateur's Night

Yesterday Michael and I entered ourselves into our first "big" Trivia Contest consisting of roughly 12 teams of 5 people each. Prizes were ipod shuffles.

Our group had Michael, his sister, me, and two random walk-on players. We would've done abysmally were it not for one of the walk-ons, Pete, who knew a surprising amount of random stuff.


The contest was slow and the questions were frustratingly obscure. Wanna test your knowledge? Here were some of the questions:

1. Which US state is known as the Land of Enchantment? (Pete got this one)

2. In olden times, what did you call the carnival person who bit off the heads of chicken?

3. In which decade did the largest empire rule the most land?

4. Which current Victoria's Secret Angel has been an Angel for the longest? (I got this one wrong. Michael claimed complete ignorance: "I have no such carnal knowledge")

5. What is the world record for the fastest men's 100m sprint? (Give answer to the nearest tenth--Pete got this one too)

6. What are you eating when you eat sweet breads? (I wagered a lot on this and totally got it wrong! Argh)

7. What is the currency of Iraq? Spelling counts! (Michael got this from the news and old Arabic college classes)

8. Which former LSU men's basektball player is the all-time leading NCAA Division I scorer? (Pete got this one wrong)

9. Name the 4 US Presidents who were born in the greater Boston area. (We got 3 of them right!)

10. Which was the first President to fly while in office? (We got this one too)






Answers:
1. New Mexico
2. a geek
3. The British Empire in the 1920's
4. Heidi Klum! I thought it was Gisele :-(
5. 9.7 seconds
6. Thymus gland or pancreas. I thought it was cow's brain! :-(
7. The Dinar. Some groups said oil! Ha ha ha
8. Pistol Pete Maravich! Not Shaq, which Pete thought.
9. John Adams, John Q. Adams, JFK, and George Bush Sr.!
10. FDR

How did you do? If you got more than 4 right, you beat us!

An Open Love Letter

Oh Martha!

You have a hideous TV personality (probably becaues you have a hideous personality in real life), but I do love your aesthetics!

Today you have brought me immeasurable joy as I watched your morning show (despite cringing at everything you said in your thinly-veiled voice of disdain for non-perfection) as you announced your new partnership with 1-800 Flowers.

Your arrangements range from the unique to the sublime and are infused throughout with your incredible sense of style and sophistication. Bravo!


But not only are the flowers divine, you have given us the most charming vases to go with them! Indeed you mentioned that they are excellent reproductions of your own favorite vases throughout the years. What a wonderful keepsake to cherish long after the blooms have faded!


And now that you're running a $10 off promotional as well as a 10% off discount (codeword: MARTHASHOW) I have every reason to order one of your delightful creations for a lucky recipient!


Thank you Martha, you made my day!


Michael...are you taking notes?

April Fool's Shirts

In honor of this day here are some foolish t-shirts I like:

Can you tell what a huge fan of Arrested Development I am?
Only the good (shows) die young. *sigh*

Little Things

Sigh.

How quickly the halcyon days of Spring Break pass.
How fleeting its joys, which included:

(1) Spa time with girlfriends. Please...enlarge...admire my perfectly polished (but eminently impractical--it's snowing next week!) piggies in Malaysian Mist.

The hands belong to someone else, of course. I'm not that...flexible(?)

(2) Getting my graduation dress in the RIGHT size, finally. Two times the charm. Simple, classic, and supremely versatile: the LBD. Good for work, good for drinks, and good for graduation!

(Aside: I wouldn't have chosen such a drab color but they told us to wear something dark cuz the robe sometimes stains the clothes underneath)

After this nice week-long pause, life will be at 2X speed!
3 weeks until finals.
6 weeks until Bar Classes begin.
And 8 weeks before graduation and a cross-country move!

In between throw in some out-of-town visitors, lots of in-town goodbye parties, and LOTS of packing, and you've got a very frazzled Alice. Eek!!!

I think I need another pedicure...

3 Truths and a Soak

In the past few days some disappointing things have happened:

1. I ate an entire filet of undercooked cod. My own fault. I'm still paying for it two days later via intense bloating! (Or maybe I'm just legitimately fatter...)

2. I ordered a great graduation dress from Ann Taylor. It was supposed to be a single-digit size and 20% off. Stupid item came without the discount AND in size 10! WTF.

3. I finally got my greatly anticipated pair of white jeans from Boden (it was on back order for 2 weeks...now the back order is 8!) They don't fit. Too tight. Gave me a total "muffin top" effect that I couldn't completely blame on the (hopefully temporary) raw fish bloat.

But I did get this nice email yesterday:

Dear Ms. Chung,

This email serves as a confirmation for your upcoming appointment(s) at Pyara Spa & Salon. Sat 3/29/2008 03:15 PM Focus Pedicure with Leigh Ann Marticio

I'm going to get my first pedicure ever!

Part of me thinks: what's the point, it's still snowing and raining here. The other part says: Shut up! You need to relax.

Two Rights Don't Make a Right

****Warning: This post is rated VS for "very superficial."****

How did Bruce Willis and Demi Moore, two very attractive people, end up with deformed looking kids? To wit:

Daughter: Rumer Willis (aka Butterface)

Another unfortunate daughter: Tallulah Belle Willis (that name's ironic)

Life can be so "unfair." It's as if some awful genetic expression happened because Demi and Bruce are actually long-lost half-siblings. But seriously, what happened?!

Girl Crush of the Day

I was just browsing the channels this morning and happened to see this hot mama on the Rachel Ray show.

She was sharing some of her favorite beauty tips and products, and if I were white, I would totally take note. That woman has been a Cover Girl since 1976!!!! And she still looks amazing. Sigh--she's so beautiful she makes my heart hurt. To wit:

This picture was taken a year ago. How old do you think she is here? 45? Nope. She's 53 in this picture!!!! She makes most 20 year olds look frumpy and dumpy! She looked even more youthful today on the Rachel Ray show, if you can believe it.

There's no doubt that Ms. Brinkley has won the genetic lottery, but she's also incredibly good humored and good-natured too (at least she seemed to be on Rachel Ray). Instead of those degenerate and self-destructive young starletts or neurotic and freakish-looking old celebrities, Ms. Brinkley seems to never do anything that would make her look idiotic in the tabloids.

But she doesn't seem so lucky in love. Married four times, and none of them "the charm," she's known to have these 5 main lovers (one of whom she never married):

Jean-Francois Allaux:
Christie and Jean-Francois met while she was in France. Christie and Jean-Francois Allaux married in 1973.

Olivier Chandon de Brailles:
Olivier and Christie Brinkley met at Studio 54 where she was hosting a party to promote her 1982 calendar. Christie and Olivier Chandon de Brailles never married.

Billy Joel:
Christie and Billy Joel met in 1983 on the Island of St. Barts in the Caribbean. Her engagement ring was reportedly a diamond solitare the size of a sugar cube.

Billy Joel and Christie Brinkley were married on March 23, 1985 on a yacht on the Hudson River. This was the second marriage for both Billy and Christie. Christie and Billy have one daughter.

Richard Taubman:
Christie and Richard Taubman met in March 1994 when a mutual friend introduced them. He proposed in May, 1994 although Christie and Billy were still married.

Christie Brinkley and Richard Taubman were married at 3:30 in the afternoon on December 22, 1994 in Telluride, Colorado near the area where they were both in a helicopter crash in March, 1994. Christie wore a white satin dress that she designed.

At the top of lift No. 9, the simple ceremony was 11,900 feet up Telluride Mountain Christie was 40 years old, and Ricky was 46 years old when they wed. The 150 wedding invitations were drawn by her daughter, Alexa.

Christie announced at their wedding that they were expecting a baby boy. Guests at their reception at the Gorrono Ranch Restaurant were served a turkey, ham, pasta, and salmon buffet.

They had a roving magician on site to entertain the children. It was the second marriage for Richard and the third marriage for Christie. They honeymooned for two weeks in Italy.

Peter Cook:
According to an interview in the April 1997 Redbook, Peter Cook and Christie first met in 1979 when he was modeling, and had their paths cross a few times after that.

But at their re-introduction by mutual friend, NBC's Jill Rappaport, Peter and Christie felt an immediate chemistry with one another.

Peter and Christie announced their engagement in August 1996 after he gave her a sapphire and diamond engagement ring.

Christie Brinkley and Peter Cook married on September 21, 1996 under a gazebo in a broad meadow at their ranch in Bridgehampton, New York. Both Peter and Christie wore Armani suits. Christie's was white with a long skirt and train. Peter's was a black-crepe suit.

They had nearly 120 guests at their wedding including Billy Joel. Christie was 42 when they married, and Peter was 37. Christie and Peter have a daughter.

Would you rather win the genetic lottery or the love lottery?
I wonder what Christie would say about that...

Who are your girl crushes?

Weak...gasp...dying...help...

It was Michael's bright idea that we should fast today, Good Friday.

I thought it would be a nice pious gesture, but it's only 9:30am and I'm already hating it.

The irony is that I usually don't feel hungry until 11:00am so these hunger pangs are obviously just psycho-somatic--it's all in my head.

Just knowing a food-less days yawns before me fills me with anxiety and desperation. I'm starving! People were not meant to live like this! My ancestors honed their genes to prevent this kind of deprivation!

Not sure if my resolve can last the day...(or the morning)...

I'm so impious!

The Curse of Freedom

"No one can live happily who has regard to himself alone and transforms everything into a question of his own utility." ~Seneca

I've known a lot of people who feel like their lives are meaningless. They find their thoughts gravitating toward suicide for lack of anything to care about. I myself have toyed with those sentiments before in a previous life.

It's always been somewhat of a mystery to me though. Why do relatively well-off Americans seem so much more miserable than subsistence-level farmers in developing countries, or even their own ancestors just a few decades ago?


This excerpt may enlighten:

"In the late nineteenth century, one of the founders of sociology, Emile Durkheim, performed a scholarly miracle. He gathered data from across Europe to study the factors that affect the suicide rate. His findings can be summarized in one word: constraints.

"No matter how he parsed the data, people who had fewer social constraints, bonds, and obligations were more likely to kill themselves. Durkheim looked at the 'degree of integration of religious society' and found that Protestants, who lived the least demanding religious lives at the time, had higher suicide rates than Catholics; Jews, with the densest network of social and religious obligations, had the lowest. He examined the 'degree of integration of domestic society'--the family--and found the same thing: People living alone were most likely to kill themselves; married people, less; married people with children, still less.

"Durkeim concluded that people need obligations and constraints to provide structure and meaning to their lives: 'The more weakened the groups to which a man belongs, the less he depends on them, the more he consequently depends only on himself and recognizes no other rules of conduct than what are founded on his private interests.'

"A hundred years of further studies have confirmed Durkheim's diagnosis. If you want to predict how happy someone is, or how long she will live...you should find out about her social relationships.... An ideology of extreme personal freedom can be dangerous because it encourages people to leave homes, jobs, cities, and marriages in search of personal and professional fulfillment, thereby breaking the relationships that were probably their best hope for such fulfillment.

"Seneca was right: "No one can live happily who has regard to himself alone and transforms everything into a question of his own utility."

~The Happiness Hypothesis, Jonathan Haidt

Doubting Doubt

Here is a clip of Tim Keller, pastor of Redeemer Presbyterian Church in NYC, giving a talk at Berkeley about his new book, The Reason For God. He talks about all the typical reasons why nonbelievers don't believe:

"It's arrogant to say there's only one right religion."

"How can there be a God when there's so much evil in the world?"

"Religion is a strait-jacket."

"Evolutionary biology basically disproves religion."

"How can a loving God send people to hell?"

"The Church is responsible for so much injustice!"


(Length: 95 minutes)

New Things I Like

...and you might too!
(1) Photoshop Disasters
This blog is hilarious! I now realize that you cannot trust ANY media picture ANYWHERE! It's all photoshopped! To wit:



Since when does Kirsten Dunst's arm stretch 5 feet long and contain two elbows?!

(2) Black Bargainers and Obama's Problem


This article is the most insightful thing I've read on why the Rev. Wright's incendiary comments are problematic for Obama's campaign. This author is spot on!
Looks like Obama's going through an identity crisis now. Is he black-black or is he bargainer-black? Let the carefully-crafted rhetoric begin!

(3) The perfect pair of white jeans.

Nothing says Spring/Summer 2008 like a pair of crisp white jeans. Trust me--if you add only one thing to your wardrobe this Spring, white jeans is it! I personally prefer them to be slightly cropped so as not to get dirty dragging on the floor.

I've taken all the guesswork out for you. After researching tons of stores: Gap, Banana, Old Navy, Target, Levi's, Kohl's, AnnTaylor, and J.Crew (just to name a few)...the winner is: Boden! They come in two convenient inseam lengths: short and shorter.

Fun Feminist Fairytale Fantasy

I have nothing to write about, but following my zesty resolution to blog more often (see 3/11) I'm writing nevertheless!

Let me tell you about something I recently saw: Antonia's Line.

It's a delightful feminist fairytale film that won the Academy Award's Best Foreign Film in 1995. It's all about women--how great they are, how independent from men they are, how utterly capable, lovely and sometimes lesbian they are.


The central figure is Antonia, a woman in her late 30's who returns to her small Dutch farming community shortly after WWII with only her teenage daughter, Danielle. Antonia is played by a lovely and sturdy Dutch actress who just oozes wholesome goodness and health.


All the men in the sleepy town turn their heads toward Antonia when she walks by, like flowers to the sun, and she finds favor in everyone's eyes. A gentle widowed farmer asks for her hand in marriage and she slaps him down, saying she doesn't need men to take care of her. This nice man becomes her friend and eventually she says, "I won't give you my hand, but you can have everything else." Ah, feminist geezer love (just like Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell!).

Danielle eventually grows up and decides she wants a baby, but without a husband. Antonia doesn't bat an eye, and takes Danielle into the big city to find the early prototype of an anonymous sperm donor--he ends up being a James Dean look alike complete with leather jacket and motorcycle.

Danielle finishes the deed while her mom waits in the hotel lobby and then they return to their sleepy town. Nine months later Danielle gives birth to a baby girl who turns out to be a child prodigy and is sent to a special school to get extra tutoring from a female teacher. Danielle falls in love with her daughter's female teacher and it is reciprocated. Ah, lesbian love.

Eventually, Danielle's daughter grows up and has a daughter of her own (of course! We can't have any boy babies in this feminist fairytale!) They all live together on this giant farm/commune and life is peaceful and idyllic and matriarchal.

The men in the film are portrayed, at best, as unecessary but pleasant appendages to have around (but no neediness!). At worst, they are rapists. There are only two "bad" and tragic things that happen in this fairytale (well maybe three).

First, there is death. Some characters die, but not anyone we really care about except Antonia. But her death is not really sad, it's just matter-of-fact.

And second, there are rapes. Two to be exact.

And that is all the tragedy that exists in this fairytale. No thwarted lovers, no jealousy, no famine or disease. Just the ugliness of male intrusion into the lovely female sphere.

There is a side tragedy though: the restraints of religious doctrine. Oh that favorite bogeyman and strait-jacket of the modern world. Throw off those wretched doctrinal fetters that bind you!

This anthem is epitomized by the dour middle-aged priest who decides to quit the priesthood. On the day of his "liberation" we see him ringing the church bells with glee to announce his resignation and him frantically tearing off his clerical robes as if they were laced with acid, just burning a hole through his skin.

He's free, he's free! He instantly marries, has a new child each year (remarkably by the same woman) and eventually when his wife dies, devotes his life to social welfare work! Ah, the social gospel.

This kind of ideological fantasy world is hilariously out-of-date now as philosophers on their treadmill of deconstruction have already turned the page on this and moved on. Now it's theism and absolutism that the philosophic academia respects.

But even so, the hoi paloi are still singing this idealistic chorus: Women don't need men, reproductive choices are purely individualistic, and doctrine is death. Fa la la la la. Antonia's Line is the orchestral celebration of this song--full-bodied, lush, and delightfully witty.

The Homeless Man Incident

I have a strong sense of smell. That's why I almost always gag when I ride public transportation. This summer when I rode BART everyday I held perfumed paper up to my nose the entire time. And I won't go to the gym when it's crowded cuz the sweat smell is too overpowering.

So, needless to say, my volunteer activities of choice are not with the homeless. I like kids, I like hospitals, I even like prisoners. But the homeless...I just can't do it. The smell. (Aside: I heard that rubbing Vick's Vapor Rub under your nose can really help with that--that's what coroners do--but I have yet to try it.)

But sometimes the homeless come to you.

Last night, I was having a nice bible study at my house with 10 friends or so and one of them announces suddenly: I met a homeless man last week and I invited him to come here. He's on his way now!

Well, the group was thrilled. "Great!" "Tell him there's cupcakes!" "We're glad he's coming!"

I was less than thrilled. Who is this guy? Does he have mental issues? Is he going to talk and shout erratically and be covered in the dirt and grime of the streets? (I pictured Pig Pen frm Charlie Brown and comforted myself by reasoning that in the cold winter clime, no fleas could survive, right?)

And the smell...Oh, the smell...the overpowering, stays-in-your-sofa-fabric, can't-get-it-out-with-Febreeze smell.

The man came, he scarfed down some cupcakes, he stayed and prayed with us for about an hour, and then he left.

The smell stayed.

Now, lest anyone misunderstand, let me just say that I do feel compassion for this guy. He's homeless in the middle of winter, enough said.

But there is a time and a place for things. There are avenues of help for the homeless, like a shelter or the deacon committee. They are trained to know how to help this man with his many material and mental needs.

We were just a group of clueless yuppies who didn't know how to help.

Or maybe that's just how I try to justify things to myself. A better person would've helped him to get shelter, get food, etc. Stayed with him until it was apparent that he was going to be ok for a while.

I'd like to think that is someone else's job. The deacon committee's job. The professionals. The ones trained to help. Specialization, it's the rage.

And while it's imprudent to treat the homeless like they are just scruffier versions of ourselves (most of them have serious mental issues--how else could they have burned through all their social capital)...I was shaken out of my complacency.

I'm going to be thinking about this incident for a few days. Wondering, considering, confessing, and repenting.

The World Title: Meh

Today was a good day, basically...

It was 24-hour Technibond on HSN, so that's always entertaining. For those of you who don't know, Technibond is genuine sterling silver bonded to 14k gold so that you can have the look of gold for a fraction of the price. Brilliant, eh?


I also watched the documentary King of Kong: Fistful of Quarters. At first I felt like I was watching a mockumentary of the saddest geeks of all time. But towards the middle of the film I became really emotionally involved in the journey and drama of Steve Wiebe--all around decent family guy trying to beat the Donkey Kong high-score with the "establishment" working against him.

It had all the makings of a great drama. A winsome protagonist, an evil antagonist, and a dream. I'm not going to lie, I actually teared up towards the end.

But it's still pathetic--trying to be the highest scorer in Donkey Kong. Who cares if you hold the world record? You don't get money, you think you get validation, but I'm sure it's a real let down.

In highschool, my swim coach actually won a gold medal in the Olympics for the US water polo team. Mr...forgot his name...Barnes? He always said that winning the medal was the most exciting moment in his life. And the next day was so unfathomably empty. The thrill lasts for just a moment. And then the abyss.

Psychologists have studied that effect: adaptation (I think they call it). People adapt to the great fortune they have and that becomes their new baseline level. Unless you keep rising, you can't feel great for that long.

But I think when you win the world title (or achieve something you thought was the ultimate achievement), you don't just "adapt" to it like a flat-line. I think you would actually feel extremely depressed because, what else is there? What else is there to live for? Like Alexander the Great on his 30th birthday.

La Blogue du Jour

I've been watching my blog die slowly...of natural causes...I've been busy! And then, I thought to myself (this morning), I miss blogging!

Since when did blogging become a chore so onerous that I can't find the time to do it for weeks at a time? Since when did it become a photo-essay assignment that requires semi-serious thoughts to spring fully-formed from the head of Zeus (or mine)? Zut alor!

So, mon ami, I'm returning to the blogging I love. The reason why I began in the first place. It's time to get back to basics: off-the-cuff, randomn, daily, (a)musings. I'm returning to the joy of mere expression, with or without the reflection!

Viva la blogue du jour!

A True Religion

It is an incontrovertible fact that the most vulnerable people have always been the poor. And among them, it is children and widows that are most wretched.

Thus it is said that a religion that is faultless must look after widows and orphans in their distress.

This is the heart and message of Deepa Mehta's moving 2005 film, Water, about a young Brahmin widow trapped in a condition of poverty and perversion.

Chuyia is only 7 years old when her betrothed husband, some twenty years her major, dies. Her family sends her away to a far off ashram to live as a widow forever, as is the proscribed religious practice in India. Her head is shaved and she wears only white cloth to show her new "untouchable" status.

The movie peels away the layers of cultural and religious formalities to show us the true reason for sending widows away to live in isolated communities: money. One less mouth to feed, four saris less to buy, and one cot less to be taken up. In a society of subsistence-level living, one woman is too much of a burden on the family-unit without a man to work for her. Thus children are betrothed at a young age and widows are shipped off to beg for a living.

But the movie does not stop there. It goes into the age-old dark underbelly of poverty: sexual exploitation. Under the delusion of sanctity, old Brahmin men pay to have sex with the youngest widows, justifying it as an honor and a blessing for the women.

It's been almost 10 years since I've cried watching a movie, but Water made me bawl like a baby during the last scene (ha! aptly named). I could've enjoyed it more without the unrealistic Bollywood elements, but eh, whatcha gonna' do.

Water is generally moving and artistic, with strong moral elements. But it manages to manueuver between over-simplicity and meaningless ambiguity with surprising and refreshing agility.

It is a simple cry for human compassion--the ultimate barometer of truth.

Golden Lilies

They should be small,
narrow,
straight,
pointed, and
arched, yet still
fragrant and soft in texture.

7 centimeters,
about the length of a thumb
is the ideal.

A perfect foot should be shaped like the bud of a lotus.
It should be full and round at the heel,
come to a point at the front,
with all weight borne on the big toe alone.

This means that the toes and arch of the foot must be broken and bent under to meet the heel. Finally the cleft formed by the forefoot and heel should be deep enough to hide a large cash piece perpendicularly within its folds.

If I could attain all that, happiness would be my reward.

Footbinding would make me more marriageable and therefore bring me closer to the greatest love and greatest joy in a woman's life--a son.

--from Snow Flower and the Secret Fan

This book I've been reading has all the subtlety and literary pleasure of an 8th grader's diary, but I've endured the prose to satiate my morbid curiosity about my own misogynistic culture.

The hatred of women is everywhere in ancient Chinese culture and like a bad trainwreck, I just cannot look away.

From girl-hood women are called "worthless daughters" in ritualistic poems--branches that must be pruned off. It is better to have your infant daughter be born dead than alive.

"Raising a daughter is like building an expensive road for others to use."

The ideal Confucian woman had two tenets:

(1) Obedience. "When a girl, obey your father; when a wife, obey your husband; when a widow, obey your son."

(2) The Four Virtues:
"Be chaste and yielding, calm and upright in attitude;
be quiet and agreeable in words;
be restrained and exquisite in movement;
be perfect in handiwork and embroidery."

In one common moral tale, a woman fulfills all the Confucian ideals and lives an exemplary life and gets a reward--to be reincarnated as the highest being on earth: a son.

But nowhere is that misogny more evident than in the ritual of foot-binding. This disgusting practice that began when a girl was 6, was seen as the defining symbol of status and worth. The perfect feet are called "golden lilies" because of their resemblance to the lily plant. They are formed by tucking the toes beneath a girl and having her walk on them until each toe breaks and then until the whole upper-foot bone breaks!

This "procedure" of course was unbearably painful and caused the woman pain for the rest of her life. 1 in 10 girls died during footbinding due to infections.

Footbinding was to insure that women would never venture out into the world of men. Their place was within the home, in the upper-woman's-chamber. There they would embroider and sew until they died. Clown-footed servants (whose feet were not bound) did the cooking and cleaning.

Although other cultures have relegated women to a place far below men and worshipped aesthetics far from natural, I can't imagine one more systematically linked between submission and status.

Is it any wonder then that, to this day, Chinese girls are stereotypically thought of as too submissive and obedient? Conventional. Unoriginal. Mice? Were we not bred for centuries to embody these very "virtues" in body and soul?

The irony is that I never knew any of this growing up in California. My mother didn't have a whiff of submission to men on her and certainly passed nothing of Confucian submission on to me. (Well, that's not true, she liked the part about being filial.)

But some exceptions do not prove the rule. An entire civilization built on a foundation of misogyny will leave its mark. China's daughters must be redeemed from this (somewhat literally) broken cultural past.

Teens: Just Wake Me When its Over!

I don't mind having kids. They're whatever.

What I don't want, are teenagers.

They say things like, "Why do you always try to ruin my life?!" and "You never want me to have fun!" when you've spent most of your life in utter devotion to their well-being and flourishment.

You work a shitty job to send them to college, you cook a thousand meals to pour down their thankless gullet, you run a mountain-load of their dirty laundry, and after all that the thanks you get is a narrowing of the eyes, a voice laced with disdain, and a cold shoulder. And the eye-roll. I love the eye-roll. "Ugh. Like, whatever. You are like so lame."

Teens feel so entitled. Entitled to the perfect parents who are never selfish. Entitled to have free reign to do whatever they think is pleasurable. And entitled to judge and condemn.

They have learned judgment without mercy, condemnation without compassion, and that's not even the worst part.

The worst part is their lack of judgment.

They get into self-destructive relationships with the other sex. They go to parties where addictive substances are on tap. And they drive recklessly. Any one of those things may have severe consequences for the rest of their lives. This is definitely the age where permanent scarring begins.

So how does one keep one's sweet, innocent child from becoming a monster/brat?

I don't know. But I'm sure their peer-set is crucial. By the time kids become teens, or pre-teens, they suddenly no longer care about what their parents think. Instead they care almost exclusively about what their peers think. Do they think I'm cool? Do they accept me? Do I get their stamp of approval?

Watching Frontline: Growing up Online has really solidified to me how much of an iron-grip a teen's peer set has over them. Lives are literally lost because of it.

Ryan Halligan was relentlessly bullied at school. But it took the power of the internet to amplify that humiliation and condemnation to the point where life was unbearable. In 2003 Halligan committed suicide at age 13. They say the "event" that put him over the edge was, really, just an age-old prank that popular girls would play on unpopular boys. She flirted with him over IM and he flirted back. And then she dropped the bomb. She ridiculed him for "believing her." As if a popular teen queen like her would ever deign to like a "faggot loser" like him.

Megan Meier died an even more tragic death (if that's possible). Her cyber-bully wasn't even real. A totally fictional boy on MySpace told her "the world would be a better place" without her and Megan took his word as her gospel truth. She killed herself within minutes of that online message. She was only 15. Sad.

It seems to me that the problem of teenage-dom is the problem of relative worth. Who do you listen to? Whose word is your truth? Whose approval do you seek? How will you be justified?

Truth be told, I'm still trying to crawl out of the dark vortex of public approval-seeking and relative-worth basing. I suspect most adults are. And I suspect most adults pass on their insecurities and brokeness to their teens, to the third and fourth generations.

So what then can be done about the wayward teen? Probably the same thing that's good for the wayward adult.

Deep, solid roots.
...and no driver's license until you're 21, no parties, no internet, and no dating until you're 18! Just kidding. But your dates will be chaperoned!

As I lay sighing...

With Christmas, my birthday, and New Year's falling all within days of each other, I can't help but feel more introspective than usual. Some recent thoughts:

1. Remorse. Over how I've treated some of my best friends over the years. Many of which I haven't made any real efforts to keep in touch with. Why? Honestly, because I have avoidant personality disorder. Seriously.

2. Amazement. At how wonderful strangers have been to me in the past. Especially everyone who came to my make-shift wedding. Some bore the inconvenience of traveling by air, some made food, someone made me a cake and let me wear her dress, and someone else dry-cleaned everything for me. Some golden-hearted choristers even learned a special arrangement of Psalm 28 to sing during the ceremony (the highlight for me).

The silver-lining in feeling helpless is the receiving of kindness from those who know they will get no return from you.

3. Inadequacy. I'm almost 30. I should be more mature. I should be a stronger person. I should have better values. I shouldn't be so easily cowed and swayed.

But I do have better coping mechanisms...I'd like to think.

Christmas: The Ultimate Anticlimax

Every year I look forward to Christmas, starting in July.

And I actually love the fact that retailers are pushing Christmas items onto shoppers earlier and earlier each year. The more the merrier, I say. It's like a win-win. Good for business, and good for people who love the feel of Christmas in the air, like me.

And when November rolls around, it's a welcome non-stop Christmas-a-thon. On tv, in the movie theatres, in the malls, everywhere, strings of lights, red, and gold. Ho ho ho and good cheer to all.

And just when anticipation is at its most heightened frenzy, just when you can taste your vacation days beginning, that's when it all goes downhill.

You know what I'm talking about. Those few days beginning the 22nd or 23rd, when you start to spend serious time with family. Everyone flies in from the far corners of the earth and you're all stuck together in unfamiliar confines.

Now, I love my family, but let's face it. Home is where the annoyance, irritation, and sometimes worse, the heartache is.

On Christmas Eve, you usually find that one person has an ill-temper because they have the flu, one person just has an ill-temper as always, and there's always at least another who's simply absent because he or she doesn't care for Christmas. That's if you're lucky.

If you're unlucky, there's been a massive blow-out fight and presents won't be opened until New Year's Day.

Either way, you're the one left holding the bag...of decorations.

I know life is not an ABC Afterschool Special: Home for the Holidays, starring Tracy Gold. But why does it have to be so stark, the difference between the Christmas in my mind and the one in reality?

All I know is, it's just another example of anticipation being a bitch. The more you make out of something, the more disappointing the reality is. Actual Christmas suffers for the immense build-up our culture produces starting in early October. The perfectly trimmed tree, the perfectly scrubbed white family on tv, the music.

But even so, I won't give up the anticipation. In my head there is a perfect Christmas and I refuse to "re-adjust" it to cushion the blow of reality. I'm a cautious pessimist in every other aspect of my life (I probably won't lose that last 5% of body fat, I probably can't get perfectly clear skin, I probably won't ever love my job, and I'll probably never furnish my house the way I want), but damn it, I'm holding on to Christmas!

I will never stop hoping, anticipating, wishing, and trying, trying, trying. I don't care how many gifts I have to wrap, how many trees I have to decorate by myself, and how many Christmas songs I have to play...by myself too.

For the love of Christmas. The Dream lives on.


Hope you had the Christmas of your dreams and boldly anticipate a great New Year.

Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty I'm free at last!

I hate to trivialize words of such historic and cultural importance, but it captures my feelings like nothing else could. After being chained to my loathesome study desk, cramped in my back-breaking chair, for the better part of two months writing papers and finals. I'm finally, finally FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

The first act of freedom? I'm going to the knitting store to start a new project! Yeah! I've only done hats and scarves in the past but I think I'm ready to move on to a sweater vest!

Legal Gems

Sometimes in the midst of reading dry legal materials, you come accross some inspired prose that jolts you out of your humdrum malaise with a snort and a chortle, like this passage from my professional responsibility treatise:

"To put it cynically, lawyers think they should be required to keep secrets where disclosure could avoid a grievous harm to others,...but they should be permitted to disclose relevant information when their own butts are in the sling."

Ha ha ha ha! Butts in a sling! That kills me! How often do you get to see the word 'butt' in legal texts? Ha ha ha.

Ok, clearly lawschool has deeply eroded my standards for what's funny.

Two views of a minor miracle

Lately there's been a lot of snow here. As a native Californian who never skis, it always feels like an eerie supernatural phenomenon.

Here are my attempts to remember this from two perspectives:

From within...



and without.

Things Fall Apart

On the immediate aftermath of a recent implosion, I still can't understand what happened. The end of an era, a dream--I knew it was too good to be true!

Things just fell apart.

Was it my fault? All of ours? What could have been done to save it? Why try ever again? Is it something I should file under "Q" for quixotic?

All I know is this. If you weren't on the same page to begin with, you shouldn't be surprised if one day you realize you're not even reading the same book.

And then you wonder if you really have anything in common at all? What's the point of it at all? Can there really be a relationship--much less a friendship--if conversation is strained, affiliation is lacking and interests are non-over-lapping?

What are we doing here then?

quizzes

You Passed the US Citizenship Test

Congratulations - you got 9 out of 10 correct!

Could You Pass the US Citizenship Test?

You Are 27 Years Old

Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe. 13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world. 20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences. 30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more! 40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax.

What Age Do You Act?

You Are Socks!

Cozy and warm... but easily lost. You make a good puppet.

What Crappy Christmas Gift Are You?

You Have Your Sarcastic Moments

While you're not sarcastic at all times, you definitely have a cynical edge. In your opinion, not all people are annoying. Some are dead! And although you do have your genuine moments, you can't help getting your zingers in. Some people might be a little hurt by your sarcasm, but it's more likely they think you're hilarious.

How Sarcastic Are You?

Men See You As Desirable

Men often find you immediately attractive and sensual You're honesty is refreshingly beautiful ... it draws guys in You are also able to be open with your feelings with no emotional baggage Packing light means you enjoy new relationships easily

How Do Men See You?

I've always wanted my own ch-ch-chia...

Which version do you like better?

(a) Picture one, nearly hairless.
(b) Picture two, very hair-ful.
(c) No facial hair, only full head of hair.
(d) Picture two, except no mustache please.
(e) Other.

Can I get a what what?

I miss the good ol' days when "A"s were handed out like Halloween candy--to pretty much every kid who showed up.

The "A"s started thinning out around college and now law school is down right brutal. I can't begin to express how much I hate the classic bell curve.

And it's not that the grades actually matter, because they don't. (I could get the same job pulling straight "A"s as I can with straight "B"s). But its the symbolism that counts.

"A" means good job.
Well done.
Excellent work.
You rock!

"B" means eh.

And that's what I miss most of all. The ego-stroking. It's so hard to get praise as you get older. Everyone gives kids so much darn credit for just standing there and looking effortlessly cute. "You're such a good boy!" "What a good helper you are!" "Gold star for you!"

But what about adults?

We need it just as much as kids (if not more), but suddenly, the well starts to run dry. Unless you are the creme de la creme, you will never hear a "good job." Employers expect you to do your job well--that's status quo. Thus you'll never hear a peep of praise unless you do your job freakishly well.

So for those of you who are superstars and always "feel the love"--good for you. I hate you and am secretly jealous.

But for the rest of us, the gigantic bulging middle of the curve, I say, solidarity brothers. Life is hard and praise is skimpy.

So let's remember to systematically lower the bar for each other.

The Other Dream

The American Dream is alive and kicking, as far as I know.

Sure there are pockets of political isolation and downward pressure that keep people from rising from poverty no matter how hard they try and how much they hustle. But all in all, this is still the land of opportunity and the purest system of meritocracy I know.

More than any other country, America offers upward mobility despite your race, religion, socio-economic background, or physical appearance.

If you are bright. If you test into the right schools. If you hustle. You can "make it". No matter who you are.

The only catch is that you have to be meritorious. You have to cut muster. You have to be in the top percentile. It is a meritocracy, after all.

Thus sometimes, even living in a meritocracy feels oppressive. Sometimes I just feel exhausted from the rat race. It's daunting and draining to strain to measure up every day, seven days a week, 365 days a year.

Somedays I wished I lived in a charitocracy. Where people are kind, no matter what. Even if you suck. Even if you're dull. And dumb. And boorish. And small-minded. Even if you make a mistake, or two, or ten.

A charitocracy: Where you don't have to strive for signficance and justify yourself through effort.

Because you already are.